


the crystal king

by atlas (songs)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Other, Second person POV, the iwaoi is only implied tbh this is mostly oikawa-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 08:44:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4515411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songs/pseuds/atlas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The TV cameras used to love him. He even had his own cover spread, on one of those cheapy, gloss-thick, volleyball magazines your Mom would buy you from the convenience store. He was famous in your prefecture—an up and coming setter with a wide future ahead of him. And, yet—</p>
            </blockquote>





	the crystal king

1.

There is a boy.

It’s summertime, when you first see him. You’re playing volleyball out on one of the local courts—a humble, concrete space, at the edge of the neighborhood playground. Your friends help set up the net between the basketball hoops, easy chatter flitting in between:

 _The weather’s too nice to waste in June,_ someone says, and no one can really disagree. So you train outside, for the day: a tumble of first-years, laughing and sprinting and jumping. You pull off your jerseys after the second set, the no-name, school-logo still sending a twirl of pride through your chest.  _This year, we’ll win._ Every team says that every year, and you know as much. But you mean it, this time. As you pass off the ball to your left, and your teammate spikes it into the ground, you think:  _I really, really mean it._

Your practice team wins two matches, and then it’s time for a water-break. You’re drinking absently, half-listening to the conversation around you when you look up, and catch a glimpse of  _him._ He’s pretty—that’s your first thought, shallow as it is. Your second is: he looks sad. He stands outside, on the balcony of one of the apartment-rooms that overlook the park. He’s probably a few years older than you are – a university student, from one of the nearby colleges. 

An odd thought enters your mind, then:  _you’ve seen him somewhere before_.

But that doesn’t make any sense. You would’ve remembered him. Not just for his face, or his sad expression, but for the strange, ethereal air about him. Slowly, your eyes drift from the boy to the silver-sheened, metal-tube, bent beside him.  _A telescope._

Your gaze lingers. And then someone yells out:  _We’re starting the next game_! and you quickly look away, a flush in your cheeks when you realize you’ve been staring. You jog back to the net, sparing one last glimpse back to the boy on the balcony.

He’s gone.

2.

It’s a touch creepy, yes— but for several mornings in a row, you make sure to ride by the boy’s apartment complex on your way to school.

He’s never out. The telescope remains pristine, but untouched. It takes you a few days to remember: he probably has a  _life._ He isn’t going to spend all day outside, daydreaming on his veranda. 

You ask your older sister about telescopes, later during the week:  _Do creeps use them to spy on people?_ She clicks her tongue in a way that says  _idiot._

 _You use them to see stars,_ she tells you.  _Stars, and moons and planets._

_Oh,_ you think.  _Oh._

The conversation takes a turn, after that

You say:  _I bet you could see aliens, if you looked hard enough._

_You are a complete moron,_ is your sister’s reply.

3.

You ride by the park that night. For some reason  beyond your comprehension, you are possessed to bring one of your volleyballs along with you. You plop it into a plastic bag, hang that from one of your handlebars, and  _go._

When you arrive, you notice two things. The boy’s balcony is lit– but he is not looking through the telescope. 

He’s holding a volleyball. 

Huh. You reckon it’s a bit weird, because there’s a perfectly good court right in front of him, but he’s just standing there, looking at the volleyball in his grasp with a vacant, haunted expression. You think back to your practice game, and then to the volleyball you brought with you.

Then you do something stupid.

 _Hey!_ you call out, from the court. The boy glances down at you in an instant, the motion abrupt, yet elegant. You grab the volleyball from the bag, and hold it up.   _Wanna play?_

4.

Of all things, the boy laughs at you.

Your face reddens, and you grit your teeth. Then he speaks for the first time:

_What did you say, kid?_

Kid. 

 _Shit,_ you realize.  _Shit._ He really  _is_ older than you. For all you know, he might already have an office job. Isn’t 30 supposed to be the new 15? You never know these days. Your mind zips at a mile a minute and you think of every way your mother would scold you for disrespecting a grown businessman, when you finally notice the boy (man?) making his way down the stairs of the complex, and towards you.

 _Shit,_ you think for a third time, and then you and him are face to face.

He asks,  _You want to play a game?_

You say, suddenly,  _There’s no net._

The boy laughs again.  _You had guts on you, just a second ago. Am I really that scary up close? Or maybe,_ beautiful~

 _Yes,_ you blurt, regretting it instantaneously.  _I mean. Um. You’re tall._

He is. He stands a good few inches above you. He stands like a setter, and you don’t know why you think that, or what it means.

But even so, it fits.

 _Ha,_ he says, although it comes off somewhat bashful.  _Sorry, you’re too young for me._

You say,  _It’s not like that. I really want to play you, is all._

The boy says,  _I haven’t played in two years. Since my third year in high school._

_It’s like riding a bike,_ you say,  _you don’t forget._

Suddenly, he asks,  _Are you a setter?_

_Yes,_ you say, proudly.  _But I’m not a regular. The senpai say that next year—in my second year. I’ll play as the regular setter._

_Ah,_ he says, sounding faraway.  _That’s very good._

_You were watching us practice,_ you tell him.  _At first I thought you were a perv, or something, but you just miss volleyball, is that it?_

_A perv,_ he echoes, letting out a chuckle.  _You’re funny._

_What is it?_ you ask.

 _You remind me of someone,_ he tells you, and then:  _Yes, I do miss playing._

_A lot._

5.

You don’t end up playing against him. In fact, as fate would have it, after this, you never end up speaking to him again at all. This is as much a first as it is a  _last;_  the two of you talk for a while, before you get a text from your sister, saying your parents want you home. The boy waves you off, mentions something about a business project, and then an astronomy paper.

Before you leave, you give him your name, and ask,  _Um, what’s yours?_

After a lilt of hesitance, he says,  _Oikawa Tooru._

A lightbulb goes off.

6.

Oikawa Tooru is not a success story. He is not a genius, or a fairytale, or anything of the sort.

You can’t believe you’d forgotten. The TV cameras used to love him. He even had his own cover spread, on one of those cheapy, gloss-thick, volleyball magazines your Mom would buy you from the convenience store. He was famous in your prefecture—an up and coming setter with a wide future ahead of him. And, yet—

7.

You ask about him in practice. The senpai give sad looks when you bring the name up: 

_Oh, he was amazing. I’d seen him play, a few times. Terrifying composure._

_What happened to him?_ you ask.

 _You don’t know?_ the Captain asks.  _It was a huge story. He shattered his knee during one of his matches. Was pulled out mid-game. And then, well. He practically disappeared._

_Never heard anything about him, since._

8.

You bike by Oikawa’s apartment for the last time. 

He’s peering into his telescope, has a phone to his ear.

 _I’m fine, Iwa-chan,_ he says, into the receiver.  _Enjoy your time in Tokyo. I’m really fine._

A pause.

_What am I doing, now? Ah, Iwa-chan, I’m studying the stars. You know, they say there might be life on Mars—oh. Sorry, you’re in practice? I didn’t know. Listen, you should go back. You’ve always had a lousy start….hey! Don’t be mean, Iwa-chan, I’m telling you the truth. Warm up well._

His voice dips.

_Okay? Oh, don’t be so sappy. I know you miss me. You’ll be coming back to Miyagi soon, anyway. For winter break. Aa, Iwa-chan, I knew you cared! Alright, I’ll see you—huh? Oh. Iwa-chan._

You look away, quickly, realizing yourself. For a moment, all you hear is the sound of heady, misty breathing, and the pound of your heartbeat.

And then:

 _Of course I’m happy,_ Oikawa says, and if you’ve known anything in your life at all, you know he is lying.  _Why would you even ask that? I’m happy._

_Of course._

9.

When your teammates ask if you’re up for practicing in the local park, you turn down the offer, say you have a bit of a fever.

 _I’ll be fine tomorrow,_ you lie.

10.

The next slew of practices pulse by like a dream.  _Nice toss, nice catch, amazing save!_ You wonder over how many times you’ve heard these words. Wonder how long you’ve lived for them, let them pull you up and awake and forward, forward.

You’re fifteen years old. You imagine not playing volleyball for two years, and something inside of you breaks, shatters— _Oikawa shattered his knee, no one’s heard from him since—_ and you think, how fragile is this dream?

As fragile as a bone. As fragile as a name.

 _Would I become like him?_ you ask yourself.  _If that happened to me, what kind of person would I be?_

You don’t have an answer.

11.

No one in the prefecture has mentioned anything of Oikawa Tooru in two years.

You don’t break the trend. 

You keep your discoveries in secret. You decide he deserves that much: peace. So you don’t tell anyone about Oikawa Tooru, and his sad eyes and his sad phone calls. You don’t tell anyone about the ex-star-setter of Sendai, who put down his volleyball, picked up a telescope, and chose to hide.

You don’t tell anyone about the Oikawa Tooru you met. 

It wasn’t so different, you decide, from meeting a ghost.


End file.
